


Gone Boy

by madpoetwithapen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Allllll the Flirting, Eventual Romance, Flirting, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond Being James Bond, James Bond Takes Care of Q, Kidnapped Q (James Bond), Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Protective James Bond, Q Has a Fear of Flying (James Bond)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29095356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madpoetwithapen/pseuds/madpoetwithapen
Summary: Q is kidnapped, not for the first time, not for the last.For the first time, he and Bond both have some things to say afterwards.
Relationships: James Bond & M | Olivia Mansfield, James Bond/Q
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	1. Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

**Author's Note:**

> Every chapter has lyrics strewn throughout, but the song chosen fits the vibe of the entire chapter.

Q woke to grey light streaming through the windows and ten pounds of fur sitting on his face. As the world dragged itself into focus, it brought subtle aches and pains along with it, making his leg prickle with numbness and his back groan in protest. The cat stretched, digging her claws into his shoulder, and Q sneezed before removing himself from the twisted cocoon of sheets with a sigh.

Thirty minutes later he sat at a kitchen table half covered by books in dubiously clean slacks and a sweater pulled over the t-shirt he slept in, picking at perfectly fine toast that he couldn’t find an appetite for. Judging from the twisted state of the sheets when he had woken up and the sour taste in his mouth, he’d been dreaming again.

Employees of MI6 talk outside of work, maybe text and meetup, but the danger of their job hangs over their heads, an involuntary subliminal gag order. Don’t tell anyone anything they could use to hurt you. Some have entire families they never talk about. Work best friends may live one block away and be clueless. When people leave, they leave without warning, no contact. When someone vanishes from work they vanish from anyone related to work’s life as well. It happens sometimes, with underlings and agents. Of course, they’re spies. If someone really wanted to find them they could, but that, to utilize the phrase coined by management is a ‘misappropriation of resources’. That was the phrase used when three weeks after Q had been recruited to MI6, he’d been assigned to weapons production. He’d bonded with one of his project partners. They’d made plans to get drinks one weekend and he never showed. He was gone. They meant he wasn’t worth the trouble. Throughout his career, his promotions, his relationships, that phrase followed him, haunted his nightmares. It only strengthened his resolve to make sure he was worth resources, worth saving.

He gripped his toast slightly too hard, sending crumbs scattering over his trousers, causing the cat to meow in disapproval as if she could hear his internal monologue. Q knew he should talk to someone. His head was clouded with the kind of fog that suggested he’d forgotten his meds, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last taken them. He’d been forgetting laundry and dreaming again and for the sake of self respect he probably shouldn’t let basic life skills deteriorate this badly. But it was comfortable. He’d go to call his therapist and end up sitting at the piano pounding out a sonata, or in the workshop tinkering. His work was fine. More than fine, brilliant. His relationships with his colleagues were fine. He was extraordinarily talented and he could deal with crumbs at home because home was really just the remnant of the meal he had at work. The meal of himself he gave to work. He pulled his headphones on, grabbed his bag, and started off to work.

~~~

The general reality of life in an intelligence organization had become comfortingly mundane. Field agents aside, the risks and consequences of failure were generally offset by the size of MI6's taskforce and its intelligence. Most days, the goal was less blowing up a stronghold of insurgents and more jailing or bribing the right people to prevent it from ever forming. Most days the brunt of the work fell on Q to give orders and keep bad things from happening. Most days, when he did his job right, everything was manageable. His underlings could handle the tracking down of so and so or the eliminating of such and such and his job was to monitor. Most days Q did his job right, and, thankfully, today was looking like most days.

At half past noon as tell-tale footsteps approach his office, he was reminded of another feature of most days. James Bond making a nuisance of himself.

MI6's most infamous agent was the only person cocky enough to stroll into Q’s private office without knocking or a hint of faux shame, and, if Q was being honest, the only person he’d allow it from. He stood in Q’s doorway, looking every bit the handsome, suave, and competent agent that terrorized the world as well as MI6. But there was something in the way he gripped the doorway a little too hard, the way the set of his jaw was a little too serious, that let Q know he was incredibly on edge. More accurately, that Bond needed a distraction or he was going to create one himself. Given his apparent current interest in seeking out the Quartermaster, Q felt the knowledge that he was supposed to be a distraction settle unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach.

“What do you need, 007?”

“Can I not visit a colleague for my amusement and entertainment?”

“Given as I am not a toy and neither are my creations, no, you cannot.”

“Maybe I just wanted the joy of your company.”

The morning brain fog had escalated to a splitting headache, and despite Q's efforts to temper his impulses, something about Bond's nonchalance felt profoundly upsetting. 007 only dropped by when he needed something. And 007 needed Q, in a way. And he was coy to compensate for it, to avoid having to confront that reality. 

Q knew this.

Q thought about this as he sat alone in the early hours of weekend mornings nursing a hangover and clutching an empty bottle.

He thought about all the ways James cared but couldn't care about him in the ways he needed quite often. 

Right now, through the throbbing of his head, he was thinking trying to deal with this was too much. 

"You only ever come by when you think I'll be useful to you."

The words slipped out softly despite his annoyance, sounding more like a confession than an insult. Q processed the truth of what he said slowly, slower than it took Bond to respond. Bond grinned, a devilish charming smile, one that Q would've secretly enjoyed on better days.

"And aren't you lucky you're so useful so often?"

"Get out of my office Bond."

Some deep part of Q felt repulsed at the venom in his voice, the tone of a commander instead of a friend. Still, he didn't turn to see his reaction.

The only sound was heavy footsteps fading steadily down the hallway. 

~~~

Q looked like shit. He stepped out of the MI6 compound, blinking at the sun in some mixture of pain and disbelief. It shouldn’t still be light outside.

He’d banned visible clocks in his office that weren’t related to mission time to facilitate keeping track of the multiple time zones he had to live in at once to keep his agents safe. Besides, he wasn’t off work until the job was over. Still, he'd ended up with a nasty habit of not knowing exactly what time over was until he emerged from his cave like a fledging bird trying to rediscover life.

From the way the sun was starting to sink in the horizon, it was late afternoon, meaning this job had somehow taken more than twenty four hours. Families and couples flooded the sidewalks. With Q’s lack of energy, all the activity around him felt dizzying and impersonal. Something in him broke at the thought of the usual safety protocol, and he couldn't manage any more effort than taking the direct tube route home. Despite being even busier than outside streets, the hum of the underground was actually almost comforting. No expectations, just steady movement that gave him the motivation needed to move along. Further down the compartment someone’s baby wailed, and Q slid on his headphones to let the drums and lyrics wash over him.

_The mirror's image, it tells me it's home time_

The train lurched and someone’s umbrella smashed hard into the back of Q’s calf with a sting. Almost home. He just had to make it home.

_But I'm not finished, 'cause you're not by my side_

Q mumbled an apology and turned his thoughts to Bond.

_And as I arrived I thought I saw you leavin', carryin' your shoes_

The incorrigible bastard couldn’t just have a normal conversation for once, could he? Q loved their banter but honestly the man made it hard to know whether he hated you or cared about you.

_Decided that once again I was just dreamin' of bumpin' into you_

Of course, he’s a spy, that’s what he does. The floor started to spin under Q’s feet and he legs began to shake under his weight.

_Now it's three in the mornin' and I'm tryin' to change your mind_

Weak in the knees thinking of James Bond, aren’t you pathetic, he chided himself. The next lurch sent Q crumpling to the ground.

_Left you multiple missed calls and to my message, you reply_

It was embarrassing, really, how much it irked Q when Bond was gone.

_"Why'd you only call me when you're high?"_

His last thought before his head hit the floor was how much he wished he could call Bond to have him come help. 

When Q regained some consciousness he was still on the floor, headphones removed, a pleasant-faced woman standing over him.

“Are you okay, love? I’m a nurse. Are you diabetic? How much have you had to eat or drink today?”

It took Q several tries to try to comprehend what she was saying and his words still came out incoherent and slurred.

“No, not a diabetic and to the food. I'm not much of, no, haven't had much today."

She frowned. “I can’t let you go home like this. There’s an A&E at the next stop if you’d feel comfortable letting me walk you there.”

Q didn’t know how else to respond except to nod in agreement and take the arm and seat that were offered to him. Some blurred amount of time later they walked up the station steps into the too bloody bright sunlight and through the doors of an A&E. He scribbled something on paper handed to him and nodded at people who introduced themselves without processing anything. A gruff man with a beard guided Q into a bed and eased a needle into his arm.

Q welcomed oblivion as everything faded to black.


	2. 505

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, in which Bond is a thief, M is in control, and Q is in danger.

Bond lay splayed out on a sofa in what passed as MI6’s break room. Only a few people had remained once 007 made an appearance, and they'd moved as far away as possible, leaving more room than needed to brood. The space itself was a depressing drab chic, all cheaply made furniture in whites and greys and blacks and shiny chrome, full of sharp lines that fell short of modern and leaned towards hostile.

Bond had never really liked the place, but still he claimed it, if only to claim something as his own. 

The sound of M approaching reached the breakroom from hallways away, a chorus of “morning ma’am” followed by the silence of underlings making themselves scarce preceding the clicking of her heels. He always found idle amusement in the spectacle, having long ago stopped caring about disguising his disdain for others. 

He smirked when she darkened the door. “God save the queen,” he murmured, pointedly just loud enough to be heard. M gestured towards the door, and the rest of Bond’s breakroom companions, sitting tense on the edge of their seats, gratefully took the excuse to flee.

Bond groaned. 

As much as he loved the woman, her direct involvement tended to mean he’d somehow offended the delicate sensibilities of some beaurocrat she’d been put in charge of soothing. Fiascos tended to require amounts of paperwork and justifying himself to pompous arseholes that required large amounts of drinking.

She glared.

“I left you a message this morning and you’ve been ignoring me. I hope there’s a reason 007. You’ve been begging to go back on assignment for weeks.”

For a split second, Bond looked down guiltily at the walkman in his lap that he’d snatched from Q’s office hours ago, hoping it would force the quartermaster to seek him out. He fiddled with it self consciously as he met M’s eyes, trying his best to put flippancy into his words.

“I have business with our quartermaster” 

“If you care about Q, you’ll care about this assignment.”

“I didn’t say I cared, I said I... ”

In the second before her words fully dawned on him, he could only muse that the thing he liked most about M was that he never had to censor himself with her. She was unaffected by his bullshit no matter what.

Then it hit him. Q is involved. Something is very very wrong.

“What happened?"

“Meet me in my office.” 

Bond fought the urge to yell.

“M, bloody hell, tell me what happened.”

“Stand down 007. It’s classified and unlike some, I at least attempt to follow protocol. Stop acting like a lovesick schoolboy and let me brief you.”

“I am _not_ a…..”

But M had already turned her back, heels once again clicking down the hall. Bond followed her, footsteps pounding against the tile. The two of them made their way through the building, leaving a trail of terrified agents and interns in their wake. 

~~~

M closed the door to her office with a soft click, settling herself in one of two leather chairs dominating the middle of the room. Although the size should’ve dwarfed her, it only reinforced how at home she was in charge. That was the second thing he liked about her. Her competency was comforting. While he settled himself in the chair opposite her, she began.

“Listen 007, I put up with a lot of your antics and theatrics because you get the job done. You’re allowed to play hero because you’re good at it. But you are not the main character in this particular story and if you do not accept that people will be hurt. You will let me finish this briefing instead of storming out in a self righteous temper tantrum or so help me you will not have another assignment for months.”

Bond gave her a curt nod. He tightened his grip on the armrest.

“We’ve intercepted a plan for a major terrorist attack. By the time we received word it was too late to stop it being set into motion. It is not, however, too late for us to stop it in the act. In order to prevent the loss of what little foothold we had, we’ve had to let them succeed in some areas.”

“Such as?” 

His voice was almost a growl, but M continued, ignoring his tone.

“We let them kidnap Q. They aim to distract us, make us believe that an attack is coming from a different direction. Specifically, they wanted us to tie up our best assets. They’re counting on you being sent to rescue him.”

“You will absolutely not play into terrorist’s plans and send me on a wild goose chase.”

“Your mission will be simple. Q was prepared, even if he didn’t know exactly when and how it would happen. We have his exact location. Judging from intelligence he’s minimally guarded. They don’t plan on trying very hard to keep him. They’re planning on us expending more time, attention, and resources than necessary. You will be sent alone and measures will be taken to make it seem otherwise. If they find we've sent someone else, they’ll be suspicious we’ve caught on. We believe they’re aware of the certain… affection you two have for one another”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Bond was yelling now, having given up on attempting control. M wouldn’t care anyways. 

She didn’t flinch, only leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed, waiting for Bond to look at her.

“I will not attempt to justify the logic of terrorists or force you to process your most basic and obvious emotions. The fact of the matter is not only are you our best agent, the intelligence world has begun to see you two as a pair. Breaking up that pair without reason and making illogical choices will raise suspicion.”

For once, Bond stayed silent. 

“You will have no information on the main mission. I’ve instructed all 00s that you are not to be involved. They’re taking great joy in keeping secrets from you, so save yourself time and do not attempt to meddle. I need you gone. Out of sight, out of mind, no explosions or messes or newspaper headlines for at least a week. Extract Q as soon as possible. It’s likely whoever is holding him knows they’ve been sent on a suicide mission. They’re not likely to be kind to the captive that's dooming them to death and I’d rather him returned in one piece.”

He nodded and stood to leave. There was no point in arguing with her. Either he obeyed or he didn’t.

And really, he knew she was right. 

And really, he didn’t want the main mission. He wanted his quartermaster back. 

As he walked through the door, the rage burning inside him was already shifting from M to the sick bastards who’d thought it was a good idea to make Q their pawn. 

Non field agents shouldn’t be dragged into the field.

M shouldn’t treat people as bargaining chips.

Q shouldn’t have consented to be put into danger like that.

Shouldn’ts were abundant, but luckily so were his bullets. 

He’d do what he knew how. He’d harness his rage and pull himself together. Rescue his quartermaster and afterwards take joy in leaving a meticulous trail of destruction in his wake.

M called out to him.

“Oh, and James…”

“Yes ma’am”

“Next time you want to get his attention, don’t take his things. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you privately if asked.”

The door shut in his face, leaving Bond to seethe alone.

~~~

Bond was still seething on the flight to Germany. He pulled the walkman out of his briefcase and popped in one of the many cassettes he’d found cluttering the bottom drawer of Q’s desk. Part of him wanted to scoff at the oldschoolness of it all, yet he couldn’t help but find it delightfully eccentric. 

The logical reason for bringing it was sound. After being kidnapped it seems basic human decency to provide personal items and entertainment. He knew that from experience. But a deep part of him was screaming that bringing it, much less using it, bordered dangerously on sentimentality.

He reclined his seat, knocked back a shot, and turned the music up, more than willing to drown that part of himself out. 

_I'm going back to 505_

_If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive_

It felt oddly personal, listening to music someone else had chosen. Q seemed to have a thing for the Arctic Monkeys. He never would’ve thought. It seemed oddly fitting that the posh techy had a punk side. 

_In my imagination you're waiting, lyin' on your side_

_With your hands between your thighs_

An image of Q half naked on Bond’s bed flashed through his mind.

_Stop and wait a sec_

He shook it out immediately.

_Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling_

More involuntary pictures. Q’s curls falling in his face while he leans over his desk. Q smiling at him as he hands him equipment. Q toting around that silly scrabble mug.

Q.

Q.

Q.

_What did you expect?_

It’s impossible not to care for someone who saves your life countless times, isn’t it?

_I probably still adore you with your hands around my neck_

_Or I did last time I checked_

Bond wondered what it said about him, about Q, the cycle they’d fallen into. 

How do people save each other’s lives without hesitation but bristle at anything personal?

_Not shy of a spark_

They had a spark, didn’t they?

Deceiving people for a living makes it second nature. Sometimes it was hard to know whether his responses to people were genuine or reflex. But Q, Q felt natural. Bond never consciously thought about what to say to Q and still they came together magnetically, explosively. 

If they had chemistry, it was the destructive kind. 

_The knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark_

It stung, slightly, M’s lack of trust in him. It stung to think Q shared that lack of trust. 

_Frightened by the bite though it's no harsher than the bark_

Brooding over M and Q leaving him out of the loop was ridiculous. They were spies. This is what they do.

They’d both made it abundantly clear how they felt. Yesterday Q had told him to leave his office.

So why did it sting?

_Middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start_

The music wasn’t helping.

He turned it off and placed it carefully back into his bag, content to stare out the window for the remaining hours of the flight.

**~~~**

The next several hours pass by in a blur capped by the jet landing, being received by nameless underlings in expensive suits. He’s handed an earpiece and car keys by some interpol brat who doesn't know when to shut up.

The voice that comes on the other end of the line isn’t Q.

Bond tosses the earpiece out the window as he drives away. 

Compared to other jobs, this was almost insultingly simple. Bond supposes the challenge was meant to be finding him in the first place. 

The file that sits in his lap details the safehouse where Q’s been kept. It’s small, nestled under thick tree cover, almost impossible to see via satellite. They’ve been unable to provide any more than a blurry overhead shot and exact coordinates that Bond can tell will take unmarked roads and a good distance on foot to find. 

Without the tracker Q had somehow hidden on himself, they wouldn’t have found him for a long time. 

Bond grips the steering wheel and pretends if he goes fast enough he can outrun the world. 

Once he reaches the end of any determinable road, he slinks through the black forest. His feels underprepared without Q’s gadgets, and despite the fact that the trees are good cover and easy terrain, he keeps his hand on his Walther the entire time. 

When he comes up on the house, it looks almost quaint. He peers through a window and watches as the two men in the house go through the motions of dinner, sitting at a table laughing, playing cards. 

From the looks of things, they’ve eliminated all tech from the house except for bare necessity radios. The only visible weapons are a shotgun at the door and the standard issue pistols they both have at their hip. The men's nonchalant attitude makes it seem like the guns would more likely be for protection from bears than guarding human cargo. Empty prescription bottles sit on the counter in the kitchen, and, judging from their lack of firepower, their primary method of keeping Q pliant has been drugging him out of his mind. Bond shudders to think what they might’ve gotten up to for entertainment if left alone too long with only Q for company. 

They fall asleep in their chairs. It only takes two shots to neutralize them. 

He opens the door expecting the worst, but the sight of Q is still terrifying.

His curls are matted against his forehead due to sweat and neglect. His eyes are shadowed and sunken, and his cheeks are hollow and pale. Even though it's been just over 48 hours since his disappearance, he looks like he hasn't been taken care of in weeks. Bond’s hands do not waver as he undoes an IV drip they've connected to him, confirming his theory on drugs, but he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, cursing himself for not leaving the guards alive before checking on Q. He wishes for a way to make them pay with more than their lives.

It takes another twelve hours for Q to become suitably lucid. When he sees Bond, he sighs with relief and relaxes in a way neither fully understands, eagerly gulping down the food and water Bond brought him without a word. They sit in silence for almost an hour before Q speaks, hoarse and raspy, untrusting of his voice.

“So you’re the one they’ve sent to retrieve me?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you take greater care in returning me in one piece than you typically do with your equipment.”

And, God save them both, they laughed. More than either had in a long time.

Q winces afterwards, but a little of the light returns to his eyes.

They only stay for an hour longer, gathering food and supplies and searching for information as well as Q’s personal items. They stumble through back to the car 007 brought, depositing the supplies in the back and Q in the passenger seat. 

The sun rises as they roll down the road and Q curls up in his seat, clutching the seatbelt like it's his only friend. 

“I could use a vacation,” he mutters, before rolling over and using his hands as a pillow, doubtlessly already half unconscious again. 

Something in Bond feels uneasy. It's never this easy. Happy endings are common because he makes them so, but they're always paid for in blood, sweat, tears, and lives.

But for some reason, just this once, maybe it's not his responsibility to save the world. M wants him gone for a week with no drama. He'll give her that. 

“You know what, why the hell not?," he replies.

And although it's too late, Q is already asleep and the only one who hears him is the wind, Bond smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: 505 by Artic Monkeys. Yes there is a theme here. Updates should be every other day until completion, schedule permitting.


	3. Old Yellow Bricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling readers,   
> This is a fraction of the chapter I had planned, but I thought even if only a few people were expecting updates they deserved one and an explanation. I recently suffered the sudden loss of a family member and I'm not in a state of mind to write the story people deserve. Writing is an escape for me but it may be a few days until I'm ready to continue. Thank you all for your hits and your kudos and your comments, they're more motivating than you know.
> 
> Song Credit: Old Yellow Bricks-Artic Monkeys

Q wakes once again to grey light and pain. There’s a terrible rush of deja vu, and for a moment he feels as if he’s falling, falling into an endless solitary loop of fever dream darkness where nothing is real with nobody to rescue him, with nobody who cares enough to rescue him. He jerks upright, eyes flying open, and realizes nothing is the same at all. This time there’s no darkness, no quiet, no wrist restraints, no disembodied voices of men with thick accents.

This time James Bond is sitting across from him, staring blankly, jaw set in mild concern. 

Dim overhead lights illuminate his face, casting it in ghostly shadows. Dark wilderness whizzes by the window, full of angular shapes lit softly by pale starlight that barely penetrates the inky blackness of the terrain. Q can’t help but find it perversely beautiful, and the thrum of gentle movement that surrounds him calls him back to the comfort of unconsciousness. He can sleep, he thinks. Bond is here. Bond will keep him safe. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Something in the agent’s voice pulls Q back from the brink of sleep, and all he can manage in response is a glare. Bond scoffs, taking Q’s displeasure at reality as displeasure with his methods of waking him up.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t right there with you dear quartermaster, but the last time you woke up I was right beside you and you backhanded me. I thought it was best to give you your space.”

“Last time?”

Trying to think felt like walking into a library and forgetting what book you were looking for. Like forgetting what book you were looking for and turning around to leave only to find the door has disappeared. He feels disconnected from his body, his muscles weak and trembling and useless, his original conviction that this wasn’t another nightmare with another Bond sent to torment him rapidly fades. Nothing feels continuous and the idea of there being a time before this that Q was awake seems almost incomprehensibly ridiculous.

“You’ve been awake on and off since this morning. You never seem to remember waking up, I assume whatever they gave you was an amnesiac as well as an anesthetic. Smart of them. We boarded the train during one of your conscious spells. They wouldn’t exactly let me carry an unconscious teenage boy on board.”

Q sends him another glare in response, but Bond’s humor gives Q something to grab onto, someplace to start trying to unravel reality. When he takes a second look at the 00s face, he realizes he’s mistaken a bruise blooming just below his eye for a shadow. Details like that made everything else come into focus, something that was real, unchanging, verifiable. He just had to keep trying to pull himself out of this haze. 

“Bond…. ,” he starts, meaning for his tone to be a warning, to intimidate him, to at least affect something, but he can’t help the amusement that creeps into his voice. Again his frustration flares at his lack of control, his lack of clarity, but he pushes it down, deciding to change tracks. 

“We’re on a train to where?”

“Rome. You said you needed a vacation and I know you hate flying. If you’re getting snipey with me hopefully you’re awake for good this time.”

“Why Rome?” 

“It seemed like a place you’d love.”

For a few minutes, neither of them have anything to say, and the silence stretches heavily between them, Q keeping his eyes fixed on the bruise on Bond’s cheek and Bond looking anywhere but Q. Eventually, Bond speaks.

“You’ve been suspicious of me every time you’ve woken up. I think you’ve always thought you’re still dreaming.”

“The worst nightmares always start off looking like fantasies.”

At that Bond tenses, pausing awkwardly to consider what he was about to say, and self loathing manages to creep into the addled fog of Q’s thoughts. He chides himself for not being more helpful, for not being more functional, for not being able to explain how James haunts his dreams and it’s always him who hurts Q the most in the end. But then he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Is there.. Er… is there anything I can do?”

“Honestly 007,” Q ventures softly, “ I was just kidnapped and drugged to the point of amnesia. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do that’ll make me feel less like shit. Just… stay with me please?”

He nodded once, as if that was the answer he expected. 

Bond pulls the walkman out of a briefcase sitting by his feet and hands Q one of the earbuds without a word. Q considers asking for both, but decides the idea of sharing music with someone, sharing anything with anyone, might help reality sink in. He leans his cheek against the window, cool from the outside winter air, and listens to track after track, losing himself in guitar riffs and beat drops. 

_ Old yellow bricks _

_ Love's a risk _

_ Quite the little 'escapologist' _

_ Looked so miffed _

_ When you wished _

_ For a thousand places better than this _

_ You are the fugitive _

_ But you don't know what you're runnin' from _

_ You can't kid us _

_ And you couldn't trick anyone _

_ Houdini, love, you don't know what you're runnin' away from _

Q can’t even manage to think about the lyrics. He let’s them insult him and hopes the vibrations of the music can fix everything that’s cosmically wrong with his life.

Together they watch the sun rise again, the forests of Germany replaced by the rolling green of the Italian countryside. It’s not something Q ever imagined doing with Bond, but he can’t think of anything that would feel more right.

The train pulls in uneventfully and they take a cab to the center of the city, passing grimy store fronts and graffitied buildings interspersed with ruins. Q begins to walk without direction and Bond follows him silently, looking for something that feels right. Half an hour later they pass a small hotel that seems to call to Q and he walks inside without thought. 

Before they can think of an idea for cover. 

The front desk is manned by an old couple arguing viciously. When they hear the door open, they turn expectantly. 

Q stares at them and looks back to see Bond still standing at the door, holding it open for an old lady who’s chatting with him persistently. Some vindictive part of Q makes the split second decision to seize control.

Q hands the lady one of credit cards Bond gave him and asks for the reservation to be made for a Mr. and Mr. Dubois. 

He smiles conspiratorially at the couple. 

“It’s our honeymoon”

And then there’s a hand on his back, gentle and firm. 

And then that hand is sliding down to loop around his waist. 

Q finishes the transaction with Bond pressed up against him, looking over his shoulder and practically breathing down his neck. 

Once he finishes Bond spins Q around to face him and his hands are in his hair and on his cheek and he’s leaning in closer. He pauses, something in his eyes searching, asking for permission.

James bloody Bond was trying to be a gentleman. And, Q realizes, the reason he finds that so ridiculous is that he’s wanted to do this for months. 

Q closes the distance in a heartbeat.

The press of their lips together is so impossibly soft and gentle it’s disorienting. Q’s skin is on fire and there’s a drop in his stomach that makes him feel like he’s on a rollercoaster, but Bond’s hand is gripping his hip and combing through his hair and it’s so solid and grounding and nothing has ever felt so real. 

The woman behind the counter coughs politely, and they detangle themselves. 

They retrieve the key and don’t touch each other at all as they begin the long walk to their  room. 


	4. Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q is a thief, Q is in charge, and Bond is in danger of having a heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darling readers! This chapter is set in Rome, one of my favorite cities that I’ve been too personally(pre-covid), and as much as I value my skill with words and your imagination, there are certain unique places that are special to me that I believe I just can’t do justice without context. All pictures, especially of artwork, were taken with consent of guards and guides that I was with at the time. They’re my personal photos so please keep them on this website.  
> This chapter is a long one because I’m trying to keep locations grouped together, and you know what that means? Two songs! I shall continue with the British Post-Punk indoctrination of the masses.

[The Overlook](https://i.imgur.com/Gvi0Boa.jpg)

[Via del Corso](https://imgur.com/a/Ee2V7W0)

[Gallery of Maps View One](https://imgur.com/a/JzH755P)

[Gallery of Maps View Two](https://imgur.com/a/whgvpLg)

[The Italian Countryside Because Why Not](https://imgur.com/a/J1SA1Ot)

They skulk into the hotel room, stopping and staring blankly at the single bed sitting menacingly against the wall. Q is the first to speak, trying to conceal his nerves with cheek that he’s sure Bond can see through in a heartbeat.

“Well given as between us I’m the one who’s been kidnapped I think I’ll be taking the bed.”

“Q.”

“Yes 007, I know you’ve been kidnapped before. You know what I meant.”

“Q!”

“Oh if it means that bloody much to you, take the bed. Would it really kill you to tolerate casual intimacy with another human?”

“Q, I care about you deeply. I’m not repulsed by casual intimacy nor am I repulsed by touching you, and in case our little display in the lobby didn’t make this clear, I don’t consider us bound by typical platonic boundaries. Neither of us is taking the goddamn couch.”

Q is left to stare open mouthed as he disappears into the bathroom.

By the time James reemerges, Q has already shrugged off his shoes and climbed into bed, cocooning himself in all the blankets out of spite. Bond sighs and grabs more from the closet, climbing in next to him without a sound. 

The last thing Q is aware of before drifting off to sleep is the vague sensation of being held. 

For some reason MI6’s agent most notorious for ignoring medical protocol insists on following it to the letter, mandating bedrest, so the next two days pass in a blur of room service and trashy movies.

The first day, they do something they’ve never fully done before. They talk.

Bond sits in an armchair reading the local newspaper. He looks so peaceful and majestic that before Q can think better of it he volunteers information.

“Did you know I was an art history major?” 

“Oh? Do tell. Multipurpose boffin, aren’t you.”

“I speak four languages, play three instruments, have published a New York Times bestseller under a pseudonym without discovery by my literal spy colleagues, and I’ve been told I’m rather good in bed. Yes, I’m multipurpose.”

“Good in bed are you?”

“All of that and that’s your takeaway?” 

“I never thought I’d hear MI6’s most intimidating boffin volunteer information about his bedroom skills.” 

Q flushes a deep red, even though Bond has a point, and latches onto the only thing he can.

“So you find me intimidating?” 

“Yes, Q. I do.”

Something in Bond’s expression makes it seem as if that was more honest than he intended to be, but he quickly changes tracks.

“We’ll be staying in Italy for a few days at least, unless you need or want to return home immediately. M has quite pissed me off and I intend to run up the company credit card. Is there anything you’ll be needing?”

“Well, a change of clothes, someone to check on my cats…,” Q’s perpetual headache throbbed slight, a hardly subtle reminder of his lack of self care. “And,” he continued sheepishly, “there’s medication I should probably be taking. Prescription.”

Another curt nod. He really was a secret agent. 

“Write it all down and I’ll see to it when I get the chance.”

The next time Q lays down for a nap he wakes to a few pairs of jeans and comfy sweaters with a paper bag sitting on top containing his prescription, James Bond snoring beside him.

~~~

The second day Q’s restlessness reaches a boiling point.

“Bond, I need to get out of this hotel room.”

“No chance in hell darling, you’re not going sightseeing a few days after being kidnapped.” 

“I rarely get off work for two days straight, much less this long. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it doing nothing.”

“Give it another day or two and then we’ll talk.”

“Bond for the love of God, please.”

“I am not going to patronize you or be your keeper, but if worst comes to worst I will physically bar you from leaving.”

“Take me out to dinner tonight at an actual restaurant or I’ll shut down the hotel Wifi and make your life miserable.”

“Will you ever stop arguing with me?”

Q opens his laptop threateningly. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles and they spend the day watching Doctor Who reruns in comfortable silence.   
~~~

As they get ready for dinner, Q is reminded just how nicely Bond cleans up. As they walk out, the woman manning the reception desk calls out that they make a handsome couple.

Q tries and fails to squash the spark of self satisfaction that comes from the comment.

Dinner passes uneventfully, full of martinis and laughter. They both ignore the candlelight and private ambiance and the fact that out of all the places Bond could’ve chosen, he chose this. 

Something inside Q desperately wants to ask, to bring it out into the open. Still, he knows the logical explanation is that it’s just keeping with cover. And so Q focuses on his other plan.

He encourages Bond to drink at dinner, knowing that he’ll never be able to get him fully inebriated, but every bit helps. As they walk back, Q casually wraps his arm around Bond, dipping his hand into the suit pocket as he pretends to stumble into him further. As Q silently pulls out Bond’s wallet and extricates his credit cards and spare room key, Bond remains oblivious, chuckling. 

“Getting flirty quartermaster? I never took you as the handsy drunk type.”

Q playfully shoves him away and bides his time.

When Bond hops into the shower, Q makes a run for it. 

He walks around the Via Del Corso, darting into shops and picking out clothes more his style. He finds a convenience store and picks out the first half decent eyeliner he finds, ignoring the odd looks of the clerk.  
Q takes the liberty of picking things for Bond as well, making a few educated guesses about stores Bond’s been into before and charming sales people into opening their records and giving them his exact measurements. 

He walks into the hotel room forty five minutes later carrying his spoils to Bond sitting perched on the bed waiting for him. He only has the chance to raise his eyebrows in question before Q throws one of the bags at him.  
Of course the bastard catches it easily.

“We’re going clubbing. Pick something from there and put it on.”

Then Q disappears into the bathroom, body thrumming with adrenaline. Q pulls on his leather pants and shirt and does his eyeliner painstakingly, worried what Bond will think of this new side of him. 

He exits the bathroom to James Bond in ripped jeans and a leather jacket and Q swears he’s never been more attracted to anyone in his life.

From the glint in Bond’s eyes, Q let’s himself hope he feels the same. 

Bond follows him out the door as they walk down the street into a punk club with strobing lights and loud music.

Hours and many drinks later Q starts to wander back towards the bar. A song comes on that Bond seems to like and he pulls the both of them onto the dance floor, the crowd moving in time to the rhythm. 

_Stop making the eyes at me_

_I'll stop making the eyes at you_

Bond is staring at him with an intensity in his eyes that makes Q flush, remembering the kiss from days ago. Q lifts his chin and returns his stares.

_What it is that surprises me_

_Is that I don't really want you to_

What does it say about Q, that he could’ve had a more than lucrative tech career and still chose to join an intelligence agency?

What does it say about Q that he can see a man at his worst, as a brutal killing machine, and still want him desperately?

_And your shoulders are frozen (cold as the night)_

The nerve of Bond, to kiss him and then act like a warden. 

_Oh, but you're an explosion (you're dynamite)_

The nerve of Bond to be dancing so bloody close Q can just barely feel the brush of their hips together.

_Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand_

Q has never cared for normal. From the way Bond is leaning in closer, he doesn’t care for it either.

_And lighting the fuse might result in a bang, b-b-bang-oh_

And he’s leaning even closer.

_I bet that you look good on the dance floor_

And he’s leaning so close Q can see himself reflected in his eyes and feel the warmth of his breath.

_I don't know if you're looking for romance or_

And goddamit Q doesn’t know what this man wants. He just hopes that Bond wants him. 

_I don't know what you're looking for_

Bond pulls away suddenly. 

“We’re not doing this when we’re drunk.”

Q’s heart sinks, but Bond has already turned away and started heading for the door. Q refuses to do himself the disservice of admitting he expected anything else.

~~~

Q shakes him awake the next morning, not even trying to control the smugness in his voice. 

“So, what are we doing today?”

If he can’t get kisses, he’s going to get a goddamn distraction. And something in Q isn’t ready to confront the mounting tension just yet.

Bond sighs through his nose but rolls over in bed and manages a smile.

“Let’s go see some ruins Quartermaster.”

~~~

_The Next Morning_

It’s alarming how quickly Q has gotten used to waking up next to one of the world’s most deadly secret agents. It’s even more alarming how utterly right it feels.The whole situation is alarming, really. 

Well, not all of it. 

The part where James Bond is smiling at him over a breakfast of nutella crepes and as much early grey as Q can drink is quite nice. 

And something deep inside Q is terrified that the chemistry between them is fleeting. Something closer to the surface is completely done with their game of evasion. Tours of Rome and almost kisses and romantic dinner, it’s time they said something.

“James…”

“Yes, love?” 

Bond has gotten in the habit of calling Q that in public. And every time it makes his heart flutter. The only problem is sometimes the butterflies feel like knives.

“Go out on a date with me?”

For a second he looks taken aback and Q’s stomach drops. And then Bond is laughing and Q’s face scrunches up in distaste because while 007 has always been rather untraditional Q is _sure_ laughter is never a polite way to respond to a proposition. 

And then Q’s eyes widen in horror because he just propositioned James Bond. 

But then James is taking his hands and his laugh is joyful, not malicious. 

“Darling, brilliant, quartermaster what in the world do you think we’ve been doing.”

Q flushes bright red but manages a response. 

“You’re saying all of yesterday was a date?”

“I’m saying generally when I rescue someone from the clutches of kidnappers, take them on vacation, kiss them, and share a bed with them my romantic intentions are clear.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s not a _proper_ date.”

Bond throws his hands up in the air in playful annoyance. 

“Well then darling, by all means, take me on a proper date.”

Neither stops grinning as they shovel down the rest of their breakfast. Afterwards they wander down residential side streets, once again looking for something that catches Q’s eye.  
They find an old used moped store staffed by an incredibly good looking twenty something man casually smoking a cigar who gives them the once over as they walk into the dingy looking garage. 

He talks primarily to Bond until Q runs rings around him in mechanical expertise, walking away with a top of the line model, a brilliant candy red, for almost nothing.

They speed away, and the feeling of Bond pressed into him, hands wrapped loosely around Q’s waist, is exhilarating. For once Q feels in control and carefree.

It’s impossible for him to feel normal, he thinks. The world of espionage is too saturated with drama and high stakes for the quiet moments to feel like anything but cut scenes between explosions.

If this is a cut scene, Q never wants to leave. 

He drives around aimlessly, playing tour guide, pulling Bond into all the beautiful places he remembers from his college days, pointing out hidden artwork and stories connected to other people and places from long ago. Bond, for his part, is an architecture buff. They spend hours appreciating the beauty of all the different places and each other. 

They stop for lunch in a place packed with tourists, splitting a pizza and a bottle of wine between them, carbloading and day drinking. 

Bond takes over in the afternoon, pulling them into a military museum where he runs around like a child in a candy store.

After dinner they drive around some more. Q relinquishes control of the wheel, enjoying the softness of Bond’s jacket and the feel of his muscles and the wind, taking in the city at night.  
They reach an overlook and Bond stops, offering Q his hand to help him off the bike. He looks out over the city, bathed in moonlight and illuminated by spotlights shining on monuments, and the world takes on a surreal quality. 

He feels immersed in a painting, he and Bond the lovers sillhouetted against a backdrop too lovely to be anything but a dream. But then the arm Bond has around Q’s shoulder is sliding onto his cheek and tilting his head and Bond’s lips are meeting his and even though they’ve done this before it will never ever get old.

And it’s oh so delightfully real.

Q finds himself pushed up against the railing, cool stone at his back and the heat of James at his front.  
He’s struck by the fact that for all of Bond’s prowess and experience Bond can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands.  
The press of his lips is constant, but his hands flutter from Q’s hips to his hair to stroking his back to brushing against his arm. Bond touches him like he’s precious and deserving of worship and every bit of Q is screaming for more, even though they couldn’t possibly be closer.

Q is just beginning to slide his hands up Bond’s shirt when the agent pulls away and buries his head against Q’s neck. 

Bond’s skin is delightfully warm and Q wants nothing more than to feel more, but he pauses, waiting for Bond’s next move.

Bond leans in and whispers in his ear. 

“I have a surprise for you.”

And then Q is being pulled back onto the Vespa and blindfolded and the moment is shattered. But as he flies blindly through the twisting streets of Rome he clings to the magic. 

Until he’s being picked up off the Vespa and placed in front of God knows what and then his blindfold is removed and he’s left standing in front of two iron doors.

He doesn’t know how to feel. Why are they standing behind the Vatican museum after hours? He tried to temper the anticipation bubbling inside him and his disappointment with their current location, just a dull grey corner.

The outside is remarkably unimpressive and a part of Q full of self pity bemoans the fact that they didn’t get to see the beauty of the inside. Maybe they can visit tomorrow. 

And then the giant metal doors slowly swing open, and Bond is looking at him expectantly, like a child excited for someone to open a gift they’ve given them. 

And then a well dressed guard in a funny hat and crisp suit comes out and greets them as the signori Dubois, ushering them into the building. 

Bond follows just a step behind Q, close enough to be in his personal space, and Q leans back to him and whispers. 

“James, what in the bloody hell have you done now?”

“I’m taking you on a proper date,” is his only response, grinning mysteriously and rushing through security, forcing Q to follow.

Q frantically tries to pull all the metal bits and bobs out of the pockets of his overcoat before throwing it over the table and calling out to the few remaining staff in Italian to please watch it for him before running after the agent who’d already disappeared around the corner. 

Something catches his wrist and Q finds himself once again spinned around and pressed against cold marble.

“You seem to be making a habit of this 007.” But Bond has forehead pressed against Q’s and it’s impossible for Q’s voice to carry any real malice. 

He kisses him once again, slow and deep, taking his time. 

“Seeing as I’ve arranged so we have the entire place to ourselves tonight, I believe I can make any habit I’d like.”

But Bond releases him from kisses in favor of wandering through the museum under the massive vaulted ceilings, taking turns as tour guides, the knowledge of art and war between them extensive.  
Bond pauses and poses dramatically in front of statues and when they reach an outdoor courtyard they lay on the floor holding hands, staring up at the stars. Q practically dances through the gallery of maps, the colors more beautiful that anything he could ever imagine.

He begs to go back, and he’s standing in front of a painting he particularly admires when Bond taps him on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance?” He has a cat caught the canary grin and he’s once again holding Q’s walkman in his hand. 

“Bond! Where did you hide that!”

“You don’t wanna know.”

And with that, they begin dancing. It’s not a slow song, some crooning punk ballad that Q thinks sounds like Artic Monkeys even though he’s never heard it before.

It feels oddly fitting, that that’s become their soundtrack, that Bond has adopted Q’s interests as his own. But Q’s thoughts slowly fade away as James pulls him into a sweeping foxtrot down the hall

_Open Sesame (We've places to go)_

_We've people to see (Let's put 'em on hold)_

They’ve been gone from MI6 for days and the workaholic in Q is screaming that they need to return. He ignores it.

_There’s all sorts of shapes, that I bet you could make_

Bond makes pointed eye contact and Q tilts his head forward to hide behind his hair.

_When you want to escape, say the word_

He doesn’t want to escape. He never wants this to end. 

_Well, I know that getting you alone isn't easy to do_

_With the exception of you, I dislike everyone in the room_

How the hell had this happened, two of MI6’s most antisocial busy agents ending up together. The absurdity of it makes Q laugh, and Bond silences the sound with his mouth, no questions asked.

_And I don't wanna lie, but I don't wanna tell you the truth_

_Get the sense that you're on the move_

_And you'll probably be leaving soon, so I'm telling you_

Bond seems to hold him tighter and Q returns the gesture with a gentle squeeze.

_Stop the world, 'cause I wanna, get off with you_

The glint in Bond’s eyes makes Q very excited to get back to the hotel room. 

_Stop the world, 'cause I_

Bond’s phone rings, loud and blaring, and the two of them pull away from each other. Q sighs with impatience at the irony of the song choice and the timing but lays his head on Bond’s chest and murmurs.

“You know, I can teach you how to put that on silent 007. For you I’m willing to stoop below my pay grade.”

When he looks up he sees the concern and weariness in Bond’s face.

“Q. It’s on silent. It’s not supposed to ring. Someone is overriding it. Most likely an MI6 someone. Hopefully.”

Q gestures towards the phone and Bond answers, putting it on speaker without a second thought. M’s voice comes through the line, crackling and stern but edged in panic that makes Q’s blood run cold.

“007 what the bloody hell are you doing in Rome.” 

“I have a date.”

“Get out of there. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credits: I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor-Artic Monkeys  
>  Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You-Artic Monkeys


End file.
